the cold light of day
by Masquerading with Shadows
Summary: She assumes she'll have to stop waiting eventually. / Peggy in the seventy years in between and how she can't stop seeing ghosts. Peggy-centric.


The world does not stop for Steve Rogers.

Sometimes, she wish it had.

.

She hears about the end of the war when Howard places a newspaper on her desk, along side an appreciated cup of coffee. When she sees the headlines, she can't help but feel herself let out a breath that she thinks she may have been holding for months, years even, before a true, genuine smile forms on her face. It almost feels foreign.

"I think that's the first time I've seen you smile since," Howard coughs, and Peggy's smile falters. "This calls for a celebration; the whole of New York agrees."

"I believe what it really calls for is more paperwork," she answers.

"Here I was thinking that you had enough," Howard replies, gesturing to the ever-growing stack beside her. "I assure you that it will be there when you get back. Besides, champagne makes the work go quicker."

"Fine," she says eventually. "But only because we've won a world war."

.

The celebrations last about a month before the exhaustion settles over all of them. Almost everyone she sees looks grey, deep dark circles under their eyes and listless in all of their movements. Most days, the work seems endless and unachievable.

She continues to push through, asking for a memorial to be hung near the entrance, the names of the fallen emblazoned in gold for all the world to see and honour. Usually, she is given a simple wave of the hand or a hand pressed to the forehead in pain, but she perseveres anyway, though she ignores Howard's requests to ask them for better coffee.

"They're tired," Colonel Phillips says. "We all are; half of these men aren't going to make the year when they should've gotten another ten. At least. We all deserve a break, and that includes you."

"There is work that deserves to be done, too," Peggy says. Colonel Phillips sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. "They will remembered, I promise you that." He pauses, and she suddenly realises just how old and tired he looks. "He was a symbol of hope, freedom. His legacy will not be forgotten."

"There is a difference between a life and a legacy," she says. Phillips nods and sighs.

"I'll see what I can do."

.

A week later, she walks past the memorial plaque they've finally set up. It's wooden, but polished, its inscribed names gleaming in the light. It's humble and simple. It's perfect.

She turns towards it, giving it a quick salute, before continuing down the hall.

.

By the end of the year, most of the senior staff she knows have either retired or transferred somewhere else - somewhere quieter, safer, with nicer views and more comfortable chairs. The secretary she used to get coffee with every morning is moving to Maine to settle down with her newly wed husband, and one of Howard's friends is going back to Virginia to be with family. Other colleagues - friends, people she knows, familiar faces - disappear for long periods at a time on missions to Europe with only the occasional postcard to say hello.

She continues to work, as she always does. Primarily it's just paperwork, but she's one of the quickest and most thorough in the office, so often she'll be put on radio correspondence. For the most part, it's mandatory verification correspondence, but the time in-between is static; somewhere in between the past and the present. She allows herself to think about him in that time, when she's waiting for a response, only the difference now is that she knows one will come. She assumes that she'll stop waiting soon.

.

"What shall we call it?" asks Howard, swirling a glass of scotch. "I was going with Strategic Operations Intelligence. Something short, punchy."

"Call it S.H.I.E.L.D," Peggy says after a while, smiling slightly. Howard looks at her in surprise.

"As in -"

"A shield, yes," she answers. "After all, we are a defensive unit as opposed to an offensive one." Howard sighs and slumps back in his chair, before sighing again.

"That's a bugger of an acronym."

.

Despite everything, she never quite expected the world to change so quickly.

.

As is expected, she gets married. Her husband is brave, strong, compassionate, dedicated, harshened by war but not broken by it; all the things she expects and loves continuously. He makes her laugh and feel secure, and there's nothing else she could ask for.

She sees Steve, though, on her wedding day: his face in the afternoon sunlight, smiling at her; his laughter in that of the crowds. She is pleased to say that she sees none of him in her husband, as she no longer wishes to find Steve in tragedy and she no longer wishes to be defined by it, if she ever was. All she wishes is that he had actually been there.

.

She watches as the city of Brooklyn builds itself up and tears itself down again, only to rebuild itself again. She watches as the city sets itself alight and burns continuously.

She tells her children about how much smaller both the skyline and the world used to be and how the people have changed. She tells them about how there will always be people who want to destroy the world and how there will always be people who want to save it. She tells them about heroes and shakes her head when they call her one.

For the most part, her world seems secure.

.

(She does not tell her children about ghosts and sirens and bullets and how sometimes the old world smiles. Later, she does not tell them about how sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she hears old, distorted and forgets where she is and what time it is. It's better that way.)

.

The world is louder than it used to be, filled with rushing cars and loud phone calls.

Or, perhaps nothing has changed it all.

"Peggy Carter? It's Agent Coulson, from S.H.I.E.L.D. They've found him," he says. "He's alive. Steve Rogers is alive."

For a moment, she feels the past seventy years drop away. The air smells different, the streets curve differently, she feels younger. The world is smaller.

She feels, just for a second, like dancing.

* * *

**A/N: I am a Marvel novice in that I have literally seen about three films and haven't read the comics. Accordingly, this is most likely filled with errors (particularly the naming part but I liked that anyway). Also I haven't written in about six months and it's 1am. Overall, apologies.**

**Title belongs to Ballroom Figured by Beady Eye (which is a rather fitting Steve/Peggy song).**


End file.
